Broken Antler Fen Nothing lasts forever but this is getting good now

in the witching hour, roswell's world; a mini utopia all his own — peace of which was occasionally interrupted by the kick of one of his littermates — came crashing upon him. it was violent ( for him ), the eruption of birth; like the spewing of ash and molten lava from vesuvius, the tremors of his eden brought to ruin.

the world he plops upon — unceremoniously and covered in the goo of his birthsac — was ...unpleasant. the earth is hard and cold and still half-covered and shivering from the rapidly cooling warmth roswell'd taken for granted. he, as all babes, has entered the world blind, deaf and unable to regulate his own body heat with a meager sense of smell.

it is enough, though to lead him to where he needs to be once he is cleaned by the swiping warmth of ibis' tongue. the soft vibrations of her voice lull him as he suckles eagerly; the spill of warm mother's milk in his tongue sates and stifles the demanding mewls he'd been unknowingly making. small sounds known only while they vibrated his vocal chords, while he pushed the breath from his lungs to make them — forgotten about as feeding seizes his attention.